


stormy weather

by yennefers



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Season/Series 01, [rob voice] this is a love story, post college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yennefers/pseuds/yennefers
Summary: “You piss her off?”“I didn’t do anything,” Mac snaps, because hedidn’t, him and his mom are doing fine, thank you. “She - she’s been really busy today, probably, so she just -““She didn’t answer the door,” Dennis says.It’s not a question. Mac scuffs the toe of one battered sneaker on the ground.“She’s busy, man.”One second passes. Two, three. Then:“Get in the car.”





	stormy weather

“Mom,” Mac calls out. He tries tapping his fist on the doorframe again. “Mom, it’s cold as shit out here. Come on.”

It’s been storming hard for ten minutes. Mac’s been waiting on the porch for twenty. If he squints hard enough, peering through the rain and the murky grime of the window, he can see the TV screen glowing. His mom’s in - of course she is, she’d have said something if she wasn’t - and if she’s awake she can probably hear him, so it’s fine. It’s gonna be fine.

She gets tired, sometimes. Not her fault, it’s just why she needs him. Once his dad gets out things will be different: until then, this is Mac’s job. Taking care of shit, making sure everything runs smoothly. Cutting her a little slack when she needs it.

“I’m outside,” Mac says, in case he wasn’t loud enough the first time.

Rain drips down the back of his collar. His shirt’s stuck to his back, utterly sodden - and he’s cold, and his mom’s passed out drunk in front of the TV, and Mac’s going to die out here, probably, struck by lightning or drowned in a ditch. Not that anyone will give a shit about it. His breathing hitches; coming in too quick, going out too fast - it’s making him dizzy but he can’t figure out how to slow it down.

“What are you doing?”

Mac wipes his eyes on his sleeve. He doesn’t turn around.

“Mac,” Dennis says. The range rover’s engine is idling. “Dude. What are you doing?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mac mutters to his shoes. Dennis’ sigh carries even in the wind and rain.

“You piss her off?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Mac snaps, because he _didn’t_, him and his mom are doing fine, thank you. “She - she’s been really busy today, probably, so she just -“

“She didn’t answer the door,” Dennis says.

It’s not a question. Mac scuffs the toe of one battered sneaker on the ground. 

“She’s busy, man.”

One second passes. Two, three. Then:

“Get in the car.”

There’s a particularly loud crack of thunder from above. Mac flinches as lightning spiders out across the sky, and wonders if this is God’s way of telling him to quit looking a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s a scrambled dash from the sidewalk to the passenger seat; the rain starts falling even harder just as he slams the door shut. Dennis wrinkles his nose at all the water on his precious leather interior, but whatever. That’s his problem.

“Where are we going?”

“My parents’ place,” Dennis clarifies, flicking on the indicator. “They’re upstate for the weekend.”

Mac glances out the window, fingers drumming on his thigh. Thunder rolls again, heavy and low like something stampeding; and then _again_, so loud that it feels like it makes the car windows shake. The rain picks up too, lashing down relentlessly on the windshield. Dennis swears under his breath as he dodges a waterlogged pothole, and this is how they end up not finishing the drive to Dennis’ place at all. They end up - shivering, irritated, and completely sodden - in that infamous and most liminal of spaces.

Applebees.

“Unbelievable,” Dennis mutters. He’s slouched on the other side of the booth, wringing out his sweater like it wronged him personally. “Unbelievable, this is just -“

“Can I get a shake?”

Dennis jumps. He glances up at Mac blankly, like he forgot he was there. His face settles into a familiar frown.

“What the hell are you asking me for?”

“You’re paying,” Mac points out. It isn’t even rude, really: one of them has three credit cards and the other one has three dollars. It’s logical. Dennis likes logical.

Dennis stares at him. Mac stares right back, his bottom lip stuck out. Their stalemate lasts for all of two seconds.

“Fine,” Dennis snaps. His eyes flick away. “Whatever, I don’t give a shit.”

“Thanks,” Mac says brightly, because he wasn’t raised entirely mannerless, and then he sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles until the bored teenager by the counter glares at them and saunters over.

He orders two, in the end (one chocolate, one vanilla), throwing the second one in for the hell of it. It’s exactly the kind of cheap shit that Dennis loves to pretend he hates. He can feel Dennis’ scowl on him as he orders and he sees it in the flesh a few seconds later, but for all the posturing Dennis stays quiet. He bows his head and starts to fold his damp sweater carefully, setting it down on his lap. Either he’s trying to focus or he’s trying to avoid Mac’s eyes. Potentially both.

“So,” Mac says. “Why, uh. Why aren’t you at Penn?”

He’s expecting to get snapped at - part of the process, when you’re luring Dennis and his impulses out into the open, is preparing yourself for a little roughhousing - but Dennis just… stops. He stares down at his hands, still toying with the sweater hem, then out the window next to them.

“Shut up.”

It’s a pretty lackluster comeback, all things considered. Mac decides to push harder.

“Don’t you have that frat over there? Do they know you’re here? Or like… oh, dude, is this ‘cause of a girl? Did you -”

“Shut _up_,” Dennis snaps; and there it is, that’s more like the asshole Mac remembers saying goodbye to last September. Their milkshakes arrive, right on time, and Mac takes the candied cherry off the top of his and pops it in his mouth whole.

“Stop that,” Dennis says, wrinkling his nose. “Mac, that’s disgusting.”

Mac swallows.

“They put it there for you to eat, dude.”

“Yeah, the cherry.” Dennis takes a prim sip from his straw. “Not the stem. Jesus.”

Mac decides this is grounds to take Dennis’ cherry too, just for good measure; he snatches it off the top before he has time to insult him for something else, grinning at the disgust on Dennis’ face.

“Mac,” Dennis warns - Mac ignores him, focusing on flicking his tongue just right - and then he holds the cherry stem up proudly, the centre tied in a haphazard knot. Dennis rolls his eyes as he looks away. His cheeks are flushed, Mac notices. Probably from the cold.

“I was gonna eat that.”

“Yeah, sure you were,” Mac says. “Can I have your whipped cream?”

Dennis kicks his ankle under the table, not quite hard enough to hurt. That’s a yes. Mac gets up and settles on Dennis’ side of the booth. Dennis jumps the same way he did before; like Mac’s caught him off-guard, somehow, even though they’re right next to each other.

“What are you doing?”

“Easier this way, bro,” Mac points out, swiping a curl of cream out of Dennis’ glass and licking it off his thumb. The tension in Dennis’ body settles a little.

He looks thinner from this angle: the sharp line of his jaw brought into relief under the dingy fluorescent light. The sleeves of his button-up are hanging off his wrists. Mac gets caught up watching Dennis’ fingers play absently with the hem of his sweater, looking at them without really knowing why.

“Dennis,” he says.

Dennis sighs, like he’s tired of this conversation before they’ve even had it. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head up to the ceiling.

“I’ll tell you later.”

Mac chews on his bottom lip. There are questions pressing up behind his teeth. He reaches across the table and drags his milkshake closer, taking a long sip to drown them out.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Dennis glances over at him. Mac sees, just for a second, the corners of his mouth quirk up. 

* * *

Dennis’ first year, he didn’t call. Not that it mattered: Mac got a job waiting tables and hung out with Charlie on weekends. He wrote UPenn’s term dates onto a calendar tacked on the fridge and let it gather dust. Whatever, he’d figured. Only losers stayed friends after high school. Except Dennis showed up at the front door one night in December, leaning against the frame with Charlie, a six pack, and an armful of firecrackers in tow - and there’s an exception to every rule, right? People say that all the time.

It’s not a personal thing. It’s just a Dennis thing. He likes getting to be two people. Sophomore year had been more of the same; Dennis went off to be whoever he was when he was in college, and he was the same idiot Mac grew up with in the spaces in between. He always comes back, is the point Mac’s trying to make. He just normally waits until the school year is over to do it.

“So,” Mac says. “You excited to graduate?”

Dennis shoots him a look from across the room. 

“Help me lift this,” he says, jerking his head towards the couch in the middle of his dad’s study. It probably cost more than any of the shit Mac owns, and it’s also way uglier than any of the shit Mac owns. Which is saying something.

His back hurts from the shift he finished that morning. Mac ignores it and heads over anyway, helping Dennis shove the couch legs back a few feet - and then Dennis bends down and grabs the key lying on the dusty patch of hardwood floor. He leaves the room without another word.

“Dennis,” Mac calls out, exasperated, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Come on, what are you -”

He gets three steps down the hallway, then stops.

The liquor cabinet under the stairs is wide open. Dennis is crouched in front of it, and when he gets to his feet there’s a bottle in his hand with gold foil scrunched around the cap.

“That’s champagne,” Mac says, doubtfully.

“Yes,” Dennis says. “I’m aware.”

“That’s your _parents’_ champagne, dude -”

“Since when do you give a shit?” Dennis snaps. An expression flicks across his face that makes Mac pause: he looks exhausted, with something heavier hiding underneath. There’s a muscle jumping in his jaw. _Don’t push it._

“At least tell me what we’re celebrating,” Mac says. Dennis huffs out a laugh.

“Like you said,” he says dryly, picking at the bottle label. “Last semester of college.”

There’s alcohol back at the frat house, Mac wants to point out. Lots of it. Maybe not champagne, though. Part of him wants to bring it up just to see if it would spark a fight - but everything Dennis does is deliberate, and he drove to Mac’s place of his own accord through afternoon traffic and torrential rain. The fact he won’t admit why is besides the point. 

“Upstairs or down here?”

Dennis glances at him. He’s got another odd expression on his face that Mac can’t parse, but he doesn’t recoil when Mac sidles closer. That’s something, at least.

“My room,” he decides. “Come on.”

They fall into silence as they traipse up to the landing. Dennis’ bedroom hasn’t changed; the only difference is how the air inside smells stale now from disuse. Dennis settles on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the floor. He’s holding the champagne loosely in one hand.

“D’you want me to open it?”

Dennis starts, looking at Mac blankly for a second before his common sense seems to kick in. He shakes his head.

“I got it,” he mutters. He tugs off the foil and the wire cap, his long fingers curling around the bottle as he balances it on his hip, elegant without trying to be. Mac can’t tell if it’s envy or something else, the heady dizziness bubbling in his chest as he watches. Dennis has the bottle in one hand, the cork in the other, twisting slowly - the champagne pops without ceremony, and the second it’s done Dennis takes a long, unsteady swig. He coughs into his elbow afterwards before holding the bottle out to Mac.

Mac settles cautiously on the bed next to him. He takes a sip that’s significantly smaller than Dennis’, wincing as the taste coats his tongue; it’s good champagne, sure, but not when it’s lukewarm. Nothing alcoholic tastes good lukewarm.

“I’m not graduating,” Dennis says. 

Mac frowns.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “You are. Both of you are. May 16th, right?”

“Dee is graduating on the 16th.” Dennis takes the bottle back, not looking at Mac, and drinks from it again. “I’m not.”

It’s not a joke. Dennis wouldn’t sound like this if it was - dead, unemotive, like he’s reading lines off a notecard. He wouldn’t be so motionless.

“Have you told -”

“No,” Dennis snaps. “Just you.”

There are questions Mac feels like he should be asking. He doesn’t know how to say any of them and Dennis doesn’t look like he’d answer anyway, so he settles for taking the champagne back and forcing down another mouthful. Maybe the alcohol will knock something loose.

“Well,” he says, succinctly. “Fuck.”

Dennis snorts. He ducks his head to look down at the floor, letting out a sigh that seems to shudder through his whole body and stay there for a while, making his shoulders shake. Then he shuffles backwards, leaning back against the headboard and swinging his legs up onto the mattress. He pats the space next to him. A flare of warmth sparks in Mac’s chest - he swallows, pushing it down until it’s hidden. He tries to focus on settling next to Dennis without letting the champagne spill.

“What about you?”

Dennis’ voice is abrupt, over-loud. Mac frowns.

“What?”

“You,” Dennis says. “What’s your plan. You have one, what is it?”

“I was gonna go over to Charlie’s this evening, I guess,” Mac says. “Only if the rain lets up. And then I have work again tomorrow, so -”

“Future plans, idiot,” Dennis snaps. “Where are you gonna be in five years?”

“Oh.” Mac shrugs, passing the bottle back. “I don’t know.”

A long silence stretches out in the air.

“You don’t know.” Dennis echoes. It’s like he’s testing the words out in his mouth; he sounds incredulous, really. Like he’s two seconds away from laughing. “You - seriously?”

“Nope.” Mac leans back against the headboard, glancing at him. “Do you?”

It’s a pointless question. Dennis has never said it outright, but that’s because he’s never needed to - it’s in the way he talks. The way he carries himself.

“Not right now,” Dennis mutters. The words get washed down with another swig from the champagne bottle.

Caught in profile, even when he’s stressed, is one of Mac’s favourite times to look at him. Dennis’ neck is taut but graceful as he swallows; he licks his lips afterwards, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Mac’s eyes flick back down to the sheets.

“So that’s it,” Dennis says. “That’s your plan. Not having one.”

Mac frowns.

“Don’t say it like that, dude,” he protests, picking at his thumbnail. “I’m - whatever, I’ll figure it out -”

“No, this is ridiculous.” Dennis’ voice is getting louder now. “What the fuck are we doing?”

“At least I have a job,” Mac snaps. A burning ache in his chest flares up, digging in under his ribs. “I’m doing better than you.”

“You hate your job.”

“Yeah, and I don’t have a fucking trust fund to live off -”

“Shut up,” Dennis retorts - but there’s something off about it. He sounds distracted. If he wanted to be cruel he would’ve done it already.

“Dennis,” Mac starts - but Dennis interrupts, steady and offhand.

“We should make one together.”

Mac’s brow furrows.

“What?”

“We should plan something.” Dennis reaches out to tap Mac’s shoulder lightly with his knuckles. “You and me, man. Come on.”

All the moisture in Mac’s mouth decides to leave it at once. 

“No,” he blurts out.

Dennis goes still.

Best case scenario, he drops it, and then they drink some more until the mood transitions from buzzed to drunk. The longer Dennis stays quiet the more Mac thinks he might’ve actually pulled it off, until:

“Why not?”

He’s watching. Mac can tell. He glances up and meets Dennis’ eyes by mistake.

“We don’t have any money,” Mac says, lamely. “Or - you know, any skills -”

“I have money,” Dennis points out. “And you know how to run a bar.”

“I _work _at a bar -”

“There we go, then.” Dennis sounds satisfied. “Money and skills.”

“Dennis -”

“Do you want to wait tables for the rest of your life? Or do you want to do something fun?”

Dennis is irritating, haughty, and highly strung. He has bad taste in movies and he never answers his phone. It’s dangerous to trust him too much, so Mac doesn’t, but what little faith he does have could withstand a hurricane. At this point he’s given up on trying to stifle it. He doesn’t want to. That’s probably a bad decision in itself.

“Dude,” he says. “You are such a dick.”

Dennis frowns.

“I’m not.”

“No, you are,” Mac assures him. Dennis’ brow furrows deeper, like he can’t figure out where this grand plan of his went wrong. It’s the kind of expression that looks cute on a girl, maybe. On Dennis, it just makes Mac want to smooth down the wrinkles with his thumb.

“Fuck you,” Dennis retorts. “Whatever, keep your shitty job, then. Charlie and I will start a bar.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dennis turns to face Mac properly, prodding him in the chest. “And we’ll drink and make bank and flirt with chicks all day, and you can spend ten hours on your feet serving drinks for minimum wage.”

“What if I came over to hang out?”

“I’d ban you,” Dennis says, instantly. Mac snorts.

“Banning a paying customer,” he says. “That’s gonna be great for business, bro.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Please,” he mutters. “You wouldn’t pay. You’d use my - actually, no, you know what you’d do? You’d start a tab and never fucking pay it off. Because you’re an ingrate, and you’re an idiot -”

“It would be fun,” Mac says, just loud enough to get his attention. “All of us working together.”

There’s a pause.

“Yeah.” Dennis sounds defensive. “Well, that’s… that’s my point. We’re around each other all the time, anyway. Might as well get paid for it.”

“No boss.” Mac yawns into his fist. “No shitty hours. There’s no way I’m waiting tables, though.”

“We’d be the owners,” Dennis points out. Mac can feel his body relax a little again; Dennis’ arm brushing up against his. “We wouldn’t have to do anything.”

He keeps talking. Mac tries to listen, but it’s like someone’s left a tap running - all his thoughts are spilling out at once. How hard can it be, really? Tonnes of people do it. They could find a place cheap and do it up; make it theirs. The four of them and nothing else - no distractions, no bullshit. Just steady work and easy money. It would be nice, having somewhere constant to orbit. You can’t get locked out in the rain if you’re the one calling the shots.

“Yeah,” Mac says. “Okay.”

Dennis glances at him again, his eyebrows raised. Mac shrugs.

“I’ll do it with you. Owning a bar, or whatever.”

“Oh.” Dennis hums, satisfied. “Yeah, I know.”

“What do you -”

“Use your head,” Dennis says, impatiently. “Jesus Christ. Obviously I knew you’d say yes, why would I bother asking if I didn’t know that?”

“But you didn’t know,” Mac protests. “That wasn’t you knowing shit about me. That was just luck.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Let me explain something. There is literally nothing you could do, and nothing you could say, that I couldn’t see coming a mile off. Nothing at all.”

“You don’t know that,” Mac mutters.

“Yeah, I do,” Dennis says. “Guaranteed.”

He yawns. Mac watches him shut his eyes and stretch with easy, irritating grace. When Dennis rolls his shoulders his shirt rides up in the process, exposing a flash of bare skin that’s hidden again in an instant.

_Prove it,_ Mac wants to say. The worst part is that Dennis probably could.

“I hate you,” he mutters, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. Dennis snorts.

“I know.”

Mac has been told - by Dennis, countless teachers, three nuns, and a community police officer - that he’s got a tendency to be reckless. Usually he wouldn’t agree, but even he has to admit this is a risk: the way he shuffles forward his knees, and how he fits his palm around the back of Dennis’ neck.

The kiss lands off-center. Dennis’ mouth is slack, half-parted - he can talk shit all he wants, but there’s no way he was expecting this, Mac can tell. He’s hyper aware of every place where their bodies are touching; Dennis is warm but motionless, and he doesn’t make a sound. After a second Mac pulls back to his side of the bed again, crossing his arms mulishly.

“Told you. There’s no way -”

“Do you always kiss like that?”

Mac blinks.

“What?”

“That was awful,” Dennis clarifies. “That was _unbelievably _awful. I can’t believe you’ve been kissing people that badly.”

Mac’s chest does something strange - lurching around wildly like someone’s set a firework off inside it.

“I can kiss! I can definitely kiss, I’ve kissed tonnes of girls -”

“You’ve never kissed me, though.”

Dennis is trying to sound calm. He almost manages it - almost, except for the way his voice wavers at the end. 

“Do it again,” he says, quietly.

His face is impossible to read when Mac glances over - he’s just watching. Not saying anything. Mac licks his lips.

“You told me I was bad at it, dude. As in, literally just now -”

“Mac,” Dennis snaps, half-irritated, half-pleading - and when Mac darts across the bed and presses their mouth together, slipping clumsily on the sheets, nobody’s laughing. Dennis meets him halfway.

It’s like a dream. It also isn’t, because when Mac has dreams about this nobody gets elbowed unexpectedly, and their lips aren’t all dry. He definitely doesn’t lean into Dennis so much that they nearly fall off the edge of the bed.

“Idiot,” Dennis breathes. He pulls back. Mac’s heart drops until he realises why: Dennis settles in the middle of the mattress, lying back against the pillows. He jerks his chin up; one of those small, unconscious gestures Mac has learnt to translate without trying - and then Mac follows him, careful to keep their bodies separate even as he settles his knees on either side of Dennis’ calves and leans down.

“Is this…” he says, a few inches or so from Dennis’ mouth.

“Yeah,” Dennis murmurs. “Go on.”

He does something then that kills Mac’s hesitation dead, whether he’s aware of it or not. He smiles, just faintly, his eyes focused on Mac as they trace his face like he’s committing it to memory. 

It makes Mac feel heavy. Not in a bad way - heavy the way valuable things often are the first time you hold them. A five dollar coffee after a long shift. The key to someone else’s house. The kind of heavy that says, _this is important. Take care of it._

One of Dennis’ ankles kicks his calf. It’s all the warning Mac gets before there are fingers curling impatiently into his hair, pulling him down.

Dennis tastes faintly sweet, but mostly of alcohol. He makes a soft, breathless noise when Mac readjusts on top of him, his hands sliding down from Mac’s hair to his thighs, stroking over his jeans. This angle, Mac decides, is the best one. He can kiss Dennis any way he wants. Slowly, with Dennis’ mouth warm and pliant under his - quick pecks down Dennis’ jaw that seem to piss him off, because after ten seconds or so of that he’s tugging on Mac’s hair again so his tongue can meet Mac’s bottom lip, flicking into his mouth and sending a rush of giddy heat down his spine. When he sighs, Mac can feel it. It’s weird. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

There has to be a good way, Mac decides, of explaining to someone that you’d follow them anywhere if they asked, and probably also if they didn’t, without making it weird. Is there a way to say that without making it weird?

“Stop thinking,” Dennis says. He pulls back just enough to stare at Mac critically. “We’re making out. It’s rude.”

“I missed you,” Mac blurts out.

Something in his stomach, a lightness that was unfurling when they were kissing, starts to curdle.

He’s gonna make this weird. Either that or he already has, and Dennis is about to brush him off - Dennis is going to ditch him and this time he won’t call, and he won’t come back a few months later - _please don’t leave again, _Mac thinks. Literally anything else: anger, irritation, whatever weird, caustic mix of emotions Dennis wants to throw at him, those are fine, he can work with that. So long as Dennis doesn’t walk out the door.

“I know,” Dennis says.

His fingers are tracing patterns on the sheets. His eyes are fixed on the front of Mac’s shirt like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

If he was smarter, maybe Mac could give it a name. All he really knows for sure is that whatever it is, it lives under his ribs. Sometimes, when Dennis gets close to him, it expands outwards and makes his whole body thrum. It’s comforting and terrifying, familiar and new. He has no idea what to do with it.

“I really hated college,” Dennis says.

Mac blinks.

“You…”

“I hated college,” Dennis says, like he’s choosing every word carefully. “So I drove back here.”

His hands are clenched in Mac’s shirt now. They’re scrunching the fabric and ruining the letters on the front. _RIOT_. Mac likes it so much he has another one back home - black instead of gray - folded in his bedroom drawer.

“We’re gonna be great business owners,” Mac says. Dennis’ eyes flick up to meet his, finally. The corners of his mouth twitch.

“You think?”

Mac hums. He re-settles himself over Dennis, pressing their bodies close again. “Yeah, obviously. We’ll kick ass at it.”

Dennis opens his mouth - to retort, probably, or say something he thinks is funny - but Mac interrupts him before he gets any further. It’s a slower, deeper kiss than before. Dennis sighs. His arms curl loosely around Mac’s neck. He shudders when Mac’s tongue slides over his, settling back on the sheets; Mac does it again, curious, and this time Dennis makes a low, hitched sound, and he hooks an ankle around Mac’s calf, tugging him closer. Mac could kiss him for hours. It’s so addictively, unbelievably easy to do. 

Rain is slipping heavy down the window and drumming on the roof. The thunder’s still going in the distance. Dennis is nosing at his throat now; his mouth is slick-soft as it brushes against Mac’s skin, not quite a kiss. He tilts his chin up like a question; eyes hazy, half-lidded. Mac leans in, a grin curving across his mouth, and answers it.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr ♡](https://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com)


End file.
